Employee Appreciation
by PyroYoshi
Summary: It's not easy working for Trevor Phillips. Anyone who does is bound to break eventually. Slightly AU fic about how Trevor met Ron, Wade and Chef, and what it's like to work for someone you're terrified of. Rated M for a reason, as it contains kidnapping, abuse, abduction at gunpoint, humiliation and violence.
1. Chapter 1: Meth cook wanted

Note: This is not an anti Trevor fic. I like him as a character, but people tend to romanticize him (something which I myself have done.) He's a real jerk in this story, as I tried to portray him for what he really is: a psychopath.

Also, there will be some light slash between Ron and Wade. I think they're cute together.

* * *

It was fifteen minutes to ten o clock at night, and the Altar of Madness tattoo shop was ready to be closed up until tomorrow afternoon.

The only person present was the owner, a bespectacled, tattooed man simply known to most as Chef. His nickname was no lie, as cooking was one of his main hobbies besides body modification.

He'd had a steady flow of clients all day, so he was ready to call it a night and go home. Just as he was about to turn off the shop's open sign, the customer bell went off.

The door slammed open and a somber looking, seemingly intoxicated man clad in a dirty T shirt and a pair of jeans riddled with holes strode in. He appeared to be about forty years old, with a hardened, scarred face and dark, thinning hair. He also had several immaturely done tattoos, including a dashed line that went all the way around his neck with the words, 'cut here' underneath it.

He spoke in a calm yet somewhat threatening voice and pointed at the tattoo artist. "You. I need a touch up."

"Can you come back tomorrow? I was just about to close the shop." Chef explained. Something about this man unnerved him, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd be calling the cops in a few minutes time.

"I could, but if I'm not mistaken, the sign on the door says you're open until ten. It's only nine forty five. So if you don't mind, I'd like some new ink. See this memorial tattoo? The guy who did it was terrible, and I personally feel like having a shitty tattoo is an insult to my late friend. You ARE going to fix it!" the man stalked forwards in a menacing fashion before retrieving a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

Chef uncrumpled it and looked at the design. It was a memorial design similar to the one the man already had, but more complex. It consisted of a ringed cross with thorns twisted around it, with the words R.I.P Michael: friend and brother written across it.

He sighed and gave in. After all, walk ins were excepted as long as there were no other appointments. "Alright, take a seat. I'll set up the gun."

He took a few minutes to set up the tattoo gun and to gather up the gloves and plastic wrap.

"Come on, I don't have all fucking night!" the man demanded impatiently from his chair.

Chef scowled, but didn't let the guy see him. Though he didn't get too many of them, dickwad customers never failed to aggravate him.

Once he had his things together, he returned to the customer and began the process of transforming his crappy tattoo into a nice one.  
His assumption about the guy being drunk was correct, as now that Chef was up close, he could smell the alcohol on him. As he redid the outlines of the tattoo, he noticed that the strange man was intently watching him work, his eyes focused on the gun, but remaining silent.

The silence was making him a bit uncomfortable, so he tried to provoke some conversation from his customer.

"So, who was this Michael fellow? Family? A friend?" he asked.

The man looked up to glare at him. "He wasn't just a friend. He was my BEST friend. He's been dead for a couple years, but earlier I was reminded of him and our...adventures, in North Yankton. Just roaming the country."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Losing people is always hard." Chef said, though he didn't have any firsthand experience of it.

The man seemed to take this as an insult, as he sneered. "No you're not! You don't give a shit, neither does anyone else!"

Chef didn't reply, as the conversation had become awkward. He figured the guy was just irritable because he was drunk, but didn't push it. Instead, he worked in silence, hoping the guy would behave.

His prayers must have been answered, as within a few minutes, the man seemed to become more passive and dozed off a little.

This made the tattoo artist relax a bit. It may have been an irrational behavior, but he couldn't stand it when customers stared at his hand as he tattooed them. It always made him feel like his work was being judged or silently criticized.

The man snorted and snapped awake less than a minute after Chef finished his tattoo. "How long was I out? Is it done already?"

"Sure is. Why don't you look in the mirror and tell me what you think?"

The man got up and inspected his new ink, faintly running a finger over it.

"Nice. This is nice. Excellent work, my friend. I assure you, you'll be seeing me again."

He seemed to be in a much better mood than he had been when he first came into the shop. After admiring his tribute tattoo a bit more, he paid in cash and left.

As soon as the man was gone, Chef let out a sigh of relief. He was tired, and didn't want to be around that particular customer anymore than he had to. There was something off and disturbing about him, but he couldn't pin point what it was.  
He had a few random tasks left to do before he could leave, such as sterilizing the gun he just used and counting the supply inventory, which took about an hour.

It was nearly midnight before he was finished, and while normally he'd be leaving around ten thirty, that unexpected walk in had set him back about an hour and a half. Finally, he was done with his tasks and closed up the shop.

He paused in front of the deserted parking lot, suddenly feeling apprehensive. His car was the only one in the lot and he didn't see anyone else around, but he couldn't shake the eerie feeling that he was being watched.

After a few seconds, he brushed it off. Surely he had to be imagining it, as he was quite tired. Keys in hand, he strode across the lot and approached his car.

One of the dim overhead parking lights cast just enough light for him to notice a silhouette rapidly coming up behind him. Before he could turn around, something hard was smashed against the back of his head, rendering him unconscious.

* * *

Chef had gotten some nasty headaches before, but none as bad as the one he had upon waking. Pain seared through his head, and it almost felt like his skull was expanding. Opening his eyes just made the pain worse, as he had to squeeze them shut again at the sudden blinding light. It took a few minutes, but the pain eventually subsided to a manageable level.

The wake up call occurred when he tried to shift from his seated position, only to discover he was incapable of moving. His eyes shot open and he realized with horror that he was heavily bound to his chair with thick fiberglass rope.

He looked around in a panic, taking in his filthy surroundings.

The place was unfamiliar. He appeared to be in a trailer home, and it clearly hadn't seen soap in quite a while. The floor had ominous stains in several areas, empty pizza boxes and dirty dishes littered the tacky faux marble counter top, and a disturbing amount of beer bottles and used fap socks were scattered around the trailer.

The owner was nowhere in sight, giving Chef a window of opportunity. When he was able to calm down a bit and think more rationally, he tried to think of a plan. He didn't know or care who had kidnapped him, escaping before they returned was his only concern.

He hopped around in the chair, trying as hard as he could to break it. However, all he managed to do was knock himself over, leaving him vulnerable.

As if on cue, the trailer door swung open revealing the man from the tattoo shop. When he saw his victim on the floor, he smirked.

"Nice to see you've finally rejoined the realm of the living."

Chef gawked at him. "Where am I? And just who the FUCK are you?! Why did you kidnap me?"

The man looked him over in a predatory fashion. "Looks like we've got a feisty one!"

He bent over and with one swift motion, tipped his bound captive upright again. He leaned against the counter before speaking again.

"You're in Sandy Shores. In other words, you're a long ways from home. As for me, my name is Trevor Phillips, entrepreneur and proud owner of TP Enterprises. Have you heard of me?"

"Yeah...just bad things." Chef admitted nervously. Though he had never been to Sandy Shores, he had heard horror stories about a man named Trevor Phillips, most of them concerning missing hitch hikers. There was a possibility that he was speaking with a different Trevor Phillips, but given his current situation, he was most likely dealing with the infamous psychotic one.

Trevor only grinned manically before continuing. "I brought you here for a reason. I sought you out, chose you specifically. See, I need a meth cook for my business. I no longer have the time to make it all myself. A little birdy told me that you have the experience that I'm looking for."

Chef was taken aback, and it took him awhile to finally respond. "Meth? That was one time, almost fifteen years ago! I was a teenager then, and I didn't even make it, I just watched. My cousin in the one who cooked the crystal, not me! I don't even remember how to make meth, I just cook food!"

"You mean to tell me I kidnapped you for nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?!" Trevor snarled viciously.

"I..I guess. I told you, my cousin is the one who cooks crystal. Just let me go, alright? We can even have a beer and try to find a dealer. I'm sure there are plenty of other people willing to work for you." Chef said hopefully.

Several weeks ago, he had read a book on serial killers which had included a section on how to behave if you got abducted by one. It had stated that remaining calm, revealing things about yourself and acting like you knew he'd let you go greatly increased your chances of survival.

Unfortunately for Chef, that tactic didn't work on Trevor.

Trevor laughed and pointed at the bound man.

"Let you go? I'm afraid that's out of the question at this point. If I let you go, you'll run straight to the cops, don't even try to convince me otherwise."

"No, I won't. I promise." Chef tried to convince the psychopath to no avail.

"As much as I'd love to believe you, I can't. People who run _always_ alert the authorities. Here's what's going to happen. I'll give you two possible choices. I could kill you, cut you up into pieces and bury you in the desert," Trevor made chopping motions with his hands as he gleefully watched Chef react with pure terror. "But, you seem like a decent enough guy, so I'm hoping it doesn't come to that. Option two, you work for me as a meth cook."

Chef sat in shocked silence for several minutes. So this was how it was going to end. His choices were to be murdered or work for a deranged individual who would probably end up murdering him anyway. There had to be a way out of this. Trevor couldn't watch him twenty four hours a day, could he? Would working for him entail being chained to a pipe in a dank, dungeon like meth lab, being given just barely enough food to survive?

He tried one last time to change Trevor's mind.

"I told you, I don't know how to cook meth. If you want, I can call my cousin, and you could resell-"

"NO. My mind is made up. I'm not driving all the way back to fucking Los Santos!" Trevor shouted at him. "Now what's it going to be, cupcake? You want to do this the hard way, or the easy way? Are you going to work for me or what?"

Trevor was clearly growing impatient, but Chef remained silent, too freaked out to say anything. His usual rational thinking was slipping away again, as he knew nothing good was going to come of this. If he said no, he'd meet a gruesome death, but if he said yes, he might have to endure a fate worse than death. Still, there just might be a light at the end of the tunnel.

"...Alright, I'll do it. But you're going to have to teach me."

Just like that, Trevor's hostile attitude faded, and he became ecstatic with excitement. "Great! That's just the answer I wanted to hear. I officially welcome you to TP Enterprises. Let the tour of the lab commence!"

He lunged towards the chair and grabbed the back, carelessly dragging it across the floor and out the door, not caring at all that it brought great discomfort to his captive.

As he was being dragged, Chef tried to get a feeling for where he was. He was definitely in the desert, possibly hundreds of miles from home, and Trevor was hauling him towards a large, beat up open roofed truck with mud coating the entire outer body.

He was then unceremoniously tossed into the back, landing on his side.

Trevor climbed into the driver's seat, started the truck and began driving down the road. After a minute or so, he turned back to address his new co worker. "You made a good choice in working for me. The pay will be great. You won't regret this."

Chef couldn't possibly disagree more, but chose not to say anything. The last thing he wanted was to anger his new boss again, as he was terrifying when angry. He'd pretend to go along with whatever was asked of him until Trevor trusted him a bit. Trevor had to untie him eventually, and when he did, he'd do whatever it took to subdue him and escape.

That was the plan, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be that easy.


	2. Chapter 2: Nervous and paranoid

There were plenty of things that made Ron nervous: heights, large crowds of people, blood, and public speaking to name a few.

As nerve wracking as those things could be, you could lump them all together and they'd still pale in comparison to the living chaos that was Trevor Phillips.

Ron had moved to Sandy Shores from Liberty City to get away from all the action and droves of people, along with their endless drama. He had figured moving to some bumblefuck town in the middle of the desert on the opposite side of the country would get him the peace and quiet he wanted. Little did he know that moving to Sandy Shores would be the biggest mistake he'd make in his whole life.

After several hours of tediously unpacking boxes and putting things away, he decided to take a break. He walked outside and observed the night.

The temperature sat at a comfortable sixty five degrees, and the sky was clear, offering a clear view of the stars that the light of the big city always blocked. There were even howls of coyotes in the distance.  
It was very tranquil and quiet, which is just what Ron was looking for. He leaned on the nearby chainlink fence, admiring the desert scenery and congratulating himself for coming up with the idea to move out here. It was by no means a posh upper class neighborhood, but it was good enough.

He detected movement on the next property, and looked over to see a wiry man standing on the porch of the adjacent trailer, huffing fumes from a gas can.

The man went wide eyed and briefly staggered backwards from the gas, but he noticed Ron immediately when he looked up again.

"Hey, buddy! You must be my new neighbor!" he shouted enthusiastically and jumped over his porch railing.

"Yeah, I moved in a couple hours ago. I'm Ron, and I moved here from Liberty City. This place is just what I'm looking for, it seems nice and quiet. No drama." Ron said in a friendly fashion.

Much to his surprise, the man laughed in his face.

"No drama? Oh man, you have no idea! Between the Lost MC, the Aztecas, and every other gang around the area, there's a lot of drama. Hell, there's even some Ballas up here. I'll admit most of the carnage is started by me, but those assholes provoked me!"

"...Really?" Ron asked. "Nobody told me there were gangs around here!"

"Let me tell you a little something. I'm Trevor Phillips, CEO of TP Enterprises, and this whole area of Sandy Shores is my kingdom. If you want drugs or weapons, you'll be getting them through ME. I'm the kind of guy who doesn't like competition."

Ron was speechless. That familiar, nervous feeling overwhelmed him, and he was getting a very bad vibe from this Trevor guy. The thought of living next to a hostile, apeshit crazy drug baron was not exactly pleasurable.

Trevor hopped the fence and quickly ambled over to Ron's front door, going in without even thinking about asking permission.

"What the hell are you doing? I didn't say you could come in!" Ron called after him, feeling very annoyed.

He headed inside to discover Trevor rooting around in his fridge, clearly looking for something.

Trevor looked up at him with a confused expression and calmly stated, "You don't have any beer."

"Why would I? I've only been here for three hours."

"Well if I'm going to get to know my new neighbor, I want some alcohol to go along with it." He shut the fridge and casually propped himself against the counter. "If not alcohol, I'll settle for speed. You ever do any hard drugs?"

"I smoked weed in college, but I made a point to stay away from the hard stuff." Ron admitted.

He fidgeted awkwardly, as he was becoming apprehensive and agitated since Trevor was making him more uncomfortable with every passing second. Hopefully he'd take the hint and go, but the meth head showed no signs of backing off.

"When you live next to me, you'll get addicted to something, weather its sex, drugs, debauchery or killing, you will get an addiction." Trevor spoke almost joyfully, like he was challenging his new neighbor.

It wasn't until then that Ron noticed Trevor had something tucked into his pants, and judging from the long shape and sharp angles, it was most likely a gun. Trying to conceal his paranoia, he wearily addressed Trevor.

"I think you should leave."

Trevor's expression darkened and his brows furrowed, which made his hard features more menacing.

"Are you being short with me?" he growled in a low tone.

"No, I just-"

"Shut up!" Trevor barked, making Ron back up a bit. "You know Ron, I was beginning to like you, but you had to ruin it. Are you really that much of a prude? If you can't tolerate what I do for a living, maybe I should put you out of your misery!"

Before Ron could react, Trevor was pointing a large pistol directly at his face, causing him to nearly have a heart attack. He went rigid, completely frozen to the spot in fear, and couldn't even think. He'd never even held a gun before, let alone have one aimed right between his eyes.

"There are a lot of things that piss me off, but if there's something I REALLY hate, it's when people try to tell me what to do! I'm the boss! Me! What makes you think you can waltz into Sandy Shores and start giving me orders, huh?!" Trevor demanded angrily.

Ron only stared vacantly. All he could see was the barrel of the gun trained on his head, yet he wasn't focused on it. He was experiencing a panic overload, all he could do was stand there helplessly and wait for his brains to be splattered on the wall.

He heard the click of the safety being disengaged, and that finally snapped him out of his shock, making him cower in the corner.

"Please don't kill me! I'll do what ever you want, you name it, I'll do it, just don't kill me!" he begged desperately, on the verge of shitting himself.

Trevor seemed to consider this. He lifted the pistol, but still kept it pointing in Ron's direction.

"Anything? That's a bold offer, amigo. You do realize that if you don't hold your promise, you'll be dead and buried within the hour, right?" Trevor questioned.

Ron nodded. He wasn't the type to break promises, especially not in situations as dire as this one. Even if it meant getting sodemized with a shotgun while covered in napalm, he'd do it if it meant he wouldn't get killed.

Trevor gave him a smile that clearly had malicious intent behind it.

"Since I'm such a nice guy, instead of outright killing you, I'm going to give you a choice. How would you like to work for TP Enterprises?"

* * *

Working at TP Enterprises was nowhere near as bad as death, but it was still a fate that Ron wouldn't wish upon his worst enemy.

For the past two weeks, Trevor had essentially forced Ron to be both his assistant and his personal slave. Under the threat of death, Ron had been introduced to his 'business' of buying and selling shipments of meth and firearms, and was tossed into it head first by being made to learn proper firearm operation, and was forced to smoke meth against his will. To say the past two weeks had been a living hell would be putting it lightly.

Trevor had a strict discipline policy, as Ron often found himself on the receiving end of the Canadian's fist, even for the most minor screw up. In fact, if Trevor thought that Ron was talking back to him or even thinking about defying an order, he'd give him a good, hard hit across the face.

Ron had actually hit his new boss back a couple times in his first few days of being a TP enterprises employee, but it never had the effect he thought it would. Trevor appeared to be a masochist as well as a sadist, because he almost seemed to enjoy the pain.

Today was Ron's fifteenth day of working for the most violent, unhinged person he'd met in his life. He was tired, worn out, and paranoid, as Trevor didn't let him sleep much and made him work all the time. Additionally, he felt sick, which was also Trevor's doing.

He had eaten some gross things before, such as pickled herring, but Trevor's home made soup was the very definition of ghastly. It looked like blended roadkill and tasted even worse, like all the ingredients had gone rotten. In addition to the questionable meat, it also contained chunks of a grotesque, mysterious substance as well as some other unidentifiable ingredients.

Earlier in the day, Ron had failed to find a buyer for the batch of meth that was being manufactured. As punishment, Trevor had force fed him a bunch of his disgusting home made soup.

Ron wouldn't be surprised if the soup really did contain rancid roadkill, as he had started feeling sick an hour after eating it. He sat in one of the lab's plastic white beach chairs in misery, a hand placed over his incredibly upset stomach. Going home wasn't going to be an option, so he'd just have to tough it out, at least until Trevor left the building. The Canadian had a potential client to meet up with, but he hadn't left yet, as Ron could hear him shouting at Chef in the other room, berating him for not cooking enough meth.

As if on cue, Trevor entered the kitchen, still shouting as he power walked out.

"You're fucking useless, Chef! I swear, if you fuck up that recipe one more time, there won't _be_ a next time! You understand me?" He didn't wait for the meth cook's reply before scowling at Ron. "Damnit, Ron! Why aren't you working?"

"You didn't give me anything else to do, boss. And I needed to sit down for a while. I'm not feeling so good, I think that stuff made me sick." Ron explained.

Trevor rolled his eyes. "I don't give a _shit_ if you're sick. I don't get sick days, so neither do you. You're slacking on the job, and I don't take too keenly to that. Looks like I need to discipline you again."

He immediately stalked over to the beat up yellow fridge, and withdrew a large filthy bowl with tinfoil wrapped over the top, some of the repulsive looking contents dripping down the side. "I hope you're hungry, I've got a lot of this stuff, and I think it's near its expiration date."

He removed the tinfoil and inspected the bowl's contents, making an expression of disgust as he did so. "That is rank. Not even I want to eat this."

"You're not really going to make me eat more of that, are you? I feel really awful." Ron protested.

Trevor grinned manically. "Open up!"

He pushed the shorter man against the wall and used his weight to pin him in place before pouring the revolting puree right down his throat, causing some to spill onto his shirt.

Ron gagged deeply and had to will himself not to throw up as he was forced to chug the putrid soup. The taste of that particular shot was especially foul, kind of like how he imagined gangrene flesh would taste like. His stomach lurched, but he was somehow able to keep it down.

He got a split second break before Trevor poured more of the stuff down his throat, then forcefully tilted his head back to make him swallow it.

Trevor stepped back and watched as his assistant struggled not to lose it. "Keep it down and I might go a little easier on you next time."

As much as he tried, Ron wasn't able to hold it back anymore. He put a hand over his mouth, but it was no use, as he erupted with a fountain of chunks and the puke just gushed through his fingers.

He dropped to his knees and threw up on the floor, violently and repeatedly. Everything came up, all the liquified roadkill he'd been force fed, as well as everything else he had eaten earlier in the day and even the night before. As he heaved, he bitterly noticed that the soup actually tasted slightly better coming up than it had going down.

Once his stomach was empty, he risked a glance up at his boss. Trevor was looking down at him with his arms crossed, but he had a neutral expression on his face.

For a brief moment, Ron thought that he wasn't going to do anything to him. However, that hope was shattered when Trevor loomed over him and firmly shoved his head down into his own puke, scolding him angrily.

"Really? On the floor, Ron? Have some fucking respect! Look what you did!"

Ron squirmed in disgust at the sensation of the warm, acidic liquid coating half of his face and going up his nose. He tried to maneuver out from Trevor's grip, but he hadn't completely recovered yet and still felt too sick to put up much of a fight. Trevor noticed this and pushed his head down again, holding it there and treating him like a bad dog while continuing his tirade.

"I give you employment in my business and teach you everything you need to know about being the co owner of said business, and you repay me by puking in my office? Shame on you."

After chastising his assistant a bit more, he finally loosened his grip.

Ron gasped and sat up, then dry heaved a bit as he tried to wipe all the puke off him. It was all over his face and shirt, and there was also some on the rim of his hat thanks to Trevor. He felt utterly degraded, and purposely avoided making eye contact with his superior.

Trevor smirked at him, obviously satisfied. "Normally, I'd make you lick it up, but I've got to meet with a buyer. I shouldn't be gone long, so you better have this shit cleaned up before I get back."

He tossed a dirty towel in Ron's general direction before he left.

Ron ignored the mess he'd made for the time being, not ready to face it yet. Instead, he drank a glass of water and walked outside to get some fresh air, thinking it might help him feel a little better. He let himself sink down on the sidewalk and reclined against the side of the building, wondering just what he'd done in a past life to deserve being stuck working for someone like Trevor.


	3. Ch 3: The only good clown is a dead one

Trevor was growing more and more annoyed with every passing minute. He looked at his phone, revealing the time to be 3:47 pm, and emitted a low growl.

Here he was, sweating his ass off in the sun baked desert ready to do a deal, and those stupid Juggalo fucks were over fifteen minutes late. He was the dealer, how dare they keep him waiting.

Just as he was about to give up and call off the deal, he heard a vehicle approach.

A battered white serial killer style van was driving down the road towards him, sending up plumes of dust from the gravel.

The van stopped about fifty feet from him and the occupants got out.

"About fucking time!" Trevor snarled at them.

Being a drugs and arms trafficker, he dealt with all types of unsavory people on a fairly regular basis, but hardly anybody made his blood pressure raise the way these clown people did. He may have outgrown his childhood phobia of those vibrantly clad, painted up circus freaks, but retained a severe hatred for them. To him, all clowns were bad, and the only type of good clown was a dead one.

He scowled with disgust as the group of Juggalos approached him. There were five of them, four guys and a girl.

The girl, a brunette who had surprisingly saggy breasts for a young woman, seemed to be their leader. Beside her was a tall lanky guy wearing some ridiculously oversized chains around his neck, and he had an arm around the girl's waist.

Trevor recognized them immediately. He had dealt with these two twats, Daisy Bell and Kush Kronic, once before, and knew they were so sleazy they made him look a high class Victorian gentleman in comparison. He hadn't seen the other three before, so he analyzed them carefully.

The guy on the left was bald and obese, clad in a tent like black shirt. He was wearing red and white clown face as opposed to the black and white the others were wearing.

Beside him was a little short guy who couldn't have been more than 5'4''. He was heavily tattooed and appeared to be the group loudmouth, as he was talking a mile a minute.

The fifth guy caught Trevor's attention. He had lots of facial piercings, blonde dreadlocks tied back into a ponytail, and was wearing black Tripp pants. Almost right away, Trevor picked up that this guy was different from his friends, as he stood awkwardly by the side of the van, almost like he was afraid to approach. Though he hadn't said anything yet, he gave off a friendly yet childish vibe.

Instead of greeting the clowns, Trevor impatiently strode over to his delivery van, a black Lost MC gang van that he had craftily stolen from Johnny Klebitz some time ago. He never drove his truck while conducting a deal, preferring something he could escape in if it went sour and bullets came his way.

He flung open the back doors, revealing a cache of weapons and meth, cleverly hidden inside non suspicious items. The bag of meth was stashed inside of an empty gas jug, and Trevor unscrewed the top, all the while hoping that mob of douchebags would stay put.

Those asshats may be business, but he wanted as little contact with them as possible. Trevor had never been good at controlling his explosive temper, and it would only take one smart ass comment or gesture from this group to send him into rage mode, which would result in him needing to dispose of five corpses.

Once he had the meth, he walked back to the waiting group.

"T, my favorite man! You got the stuff ready?" Kush Kronic asked.

Trevor scowled again. "Yes, I've got the stuff ready. You know the drill. Five hundred, cold hard cash."

Four of the five Juggalos snickered, further aggravating Trevor. If these guys weren't business, they'd all be six feet under by now, with the possible exception of the awkward one.

"Yeah, about that, we've only got two hundred bucks between us. I thought Daisy told you over the phone." the fat guy chimed in.

Trevor instantly crammed the bag of crystal into his left pocket before harshly addressing his clients.

"I thought I was extremely clear on the price. When I say five hundred, I mean five hundred! You think you can rip me off and get away with it?! Is that what I'm sensing here?"

"Woah, easy tiger. I never said we had five hundred. I said we'd compensate." Daisy spoke up and snapped her fingers. "Wade! Come here!"

Wade, who had been playing with the van's radio antenna, obediently trotted over to the group.

Daisy pushed him towards Trevor. "In addition to the two hundred, we'll let you spend some, uh, _quality time_ with Wade here in exchange for the crystal."

"Quality time? Like what? Watching movies or going for ice cream?" Wade asked innocently. He spoke with a combination of a strong southern accent and a slight speech impediment, and paired with the naive question he had just asked, it only confirmed Trevor's suspicion that he was a dim bulb. This kid obviously had no clue his so called friends were planning on pimping him, which did not sit well with Trevor.

"Where are we going to go?" Wade questioned, then trailed off upon realizing he didn't know Trevor's name. "We going someplace fun?"

The short guy nearly cracked up laughing. "Sure, buddy. You're going somewhere alright, but you ain't going to a fucking ice cream shop."

His annoying cackle set off the others, causing them all to laugh except for Wade, who looked confused.

"I don't get it." Wade said flatly.

"We all have to make sacrifices sometimes. Come on, do it for the family." Kush Kronic pushed him forward. "You two have fun."

Daisy giggled, and both fatty and short shit made crude blow job signs when Wade wasn't looking at them.

Trevor gave them all a murderous glare. That did it. Rage mode was activated. His wish of killing these pricks was going to come true, and he was going to relish it, reliving the glorious moment over and over in his mind.

He knew he was a bad person. He was violent, impulsive, selfish, manic, usually only cared about his own well being, and had no qualms killing people who threatened him or his business. However, even he had his touchy subjects. There were two main things he couldn't stand: violence against women and sexual abuse against either gender, especially abuse towards children or the mentally incompetent. He considered sexual abusers and woman beaters to be scum of the Earth, and to be truthful, he always felt good after killing such a person.

It was blatantly obvious to Trevor that Wade was mentally disabled to some degree, and in some strange way, he felt the need to protect the kid from his sleazy friends, even if it meant introducing all four of them to the barrel of a gun.

Doing his best to conceal his growing bloodlust, Trevor addressed the group again. "It's awfully tempting. Why don't you give me a few minutes to think it over?"

He calmly walked back over to his van and retrieved his double barrel shotgun. It could only fire two shots before it had to be reloaded, so he grabbed his pistol as well and crammed it down his pants. Once he had the guns, he let the rage take over. He slammed the van's doors so hard he nearly broke the hinges, then rabidly charged at the unsuspecting clowns.

Releasing a feral snarl, he aimed his shotgun at the short guy and fired, blowing his chest open in a shower of blood, sending him flying backwards.

An ear splitting scream from Daisy pierced the air, but Trevor paid no attention to her. Instead, he focused on Kush Kronic and blew his head clean off, the resulting explosion of gore and skull shards splashing all over Daisy.

The fat guy tried to run away, but he didn't get very far. Trevor switched to the pistol and wasted no time in pumping him full of lead, quickly dropping him. He writhed around in agony for a few seconds before the kill shot ripped through his head.

After the lardass was disposed of, Trevor shifted his attention to Daisy, who was covered in blood and paralyzed with fear.

As violent as he was, he respected women. With very few exceptions, he went out of his way to never harm, disrespect or degrade them, and hated anyone who did.

Daisy was one of those exceptions. She wasn't a woman, she was just a cunt. She was every bit as despicable and worthless as her friends.

Trevor briefly studied the trembling creature in front of him before putting a bullet in her head, killing her instantly. Once her body hit the ground, he searched the area for Wade.

The timid Juggalo was on the ground, his back pressed up against the white van, staring wide eyed as the psychotic Canadian approached him.

"Stay away from me!" he suddenly jumped up and bolted away, stupidly running right into the open area. He ran as fast as he could, but was unfortunately hindered by his choice in attire.

A hand yanked one of the chains on his pants, causing him to face plant into the dirt. A heavy weight was on top of him in a millisecond, and a pistol was being waved in his face.

"Please..I don't want to die! I didn't do anythin'!" Wade pleaded. His chest was clenched with panic, and he was ready to burst into tears like the man child he was.

Trevor waved the gun away. "I don't want to kill you, but try something like that again and I might reconsider."

He put the gun back in his pants, but remained sitting on the young man and grabbed a fist full of his hair. "Listen up, Wade. Do as I say, and you won't get hurt. Understand?"

Trevor pulled back on his hair, nodding his head for him.

"Good. I'm glad we're on the same page. I'm saving you, Wade. I'm your master now. You're going to work for me. I'm going to let you up, but if you're thinking about running again, keep one thing in mind: I'm a fantastic shot. Run and you'll be a sitting duck."

He stood up and dragged Wade up with him, poking him with the barrel of his pistol to keep him in check.

"Get in my van. We're going back to Sandy Shores."

Wade stopped in his tracks and solemnly stared at the corpses of his friends, looking very much like he was about to pass out.

"Uh uh. No time for grieving. Get in the van." Trevor flashed the gun out again, and Wade immediately complied with the order out of fear.

Trevor climbed into the driver's side, started the van and tore out of the valley at nearly ninety miles per hour so Wade wouldn't jump out of the vehicle.

They drove in silence for quite a while until Wade spoke up.

"My friends are dead," he said sadly. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you kill them?"

"Those people were NOT your friends, Wade!" Trevor snapped. "Are you that dense? Didn't you realize they were trying to pimp you out in exchange for drugs? They weren't going to take you to 'The Gathering' or where the fuck ever you were going. No, they were going to leave you with me and say, 'Hey, whatever happens, happens. Wade might be getting cannibalized, but at least we got our drugs!'"

Wade didn't know how to process that shocking revelation. His friends wouldn't really do that, he was sure of it. Trevor was probably just trying to scare him, and it was working.

He looked around nervously and tried to determine if he could leap out of the van.

As if reading his mind, Trevor warned him. "Go ahead and jump out. I'm driving eighty miles per hour down a busy highway. Jump out and highway patrol will be scraping parts of you off the road for hours."

Defeated, Wade sank into his seat and tried his hardest not to cry. Something told him that crying would only make the situation worse. It was a difficult task, because at the moment he didn't know if he was going to live to see his twenty fourth birthday. He had his phone with him, he could call the police, but not until he found a way to escape from Trevor.

The only thing he could think of was to try and pretend he wasn't nearly as scared as he actually was. He did this by pretending he was on the way to the Gathering with his friends, not riding to his certain doom with someone who could be the poster boy for serial killers everywhere.

He managed to remain somewhat calm until he noticed buildings start to appear on the roadside. They were entering a town! Finally, he could jump out of the van, find help and get the cops to arrest Trevor, provided he was able to get away. He made a lunge for the door, ready to jump out.

Trevor was not going to have any of that.

He seized Wade by the hair again, jerked his head back and looked him straight in the eye. "Don't even think about it! Remember what I said earlier? I don't know why, but I like you. I don't want to kill you, but if you run, I'll have no choice." he said firmly.

"I want to go home, I don't want to go with you. I won't tell nobody what you did. Please just take me home!" Wade begged.

Trevor almost relented. Almost. Had they still been out in the middle of nowhere, he might have let Wade go.

It was too late for that now. They were in Sandy Shores, and Trevor saw his trailer come into view as he rounded the corner.

"Sorry kid, I'm afraid I can't do that. This is your home now."

* * *

The next and final chapter will take place after the events of the game. Ending C, of course.


End file.
